


Bring Your Cheer

by fleete



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Holidays, Intoxication, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Team Arrow tries, and fails, at having a Christmas party.  And then tries again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Your Cheer

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Olicity Holiday Exchange](http://olicityholidays.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> Thanks bunches and bunches to concinnity, who is the world's best cheerleader, and who can make actual, literal hearteyes with her face.
> 
> To thelineswritteninwater:  
> Funny story: I kept trying to write you a story based on your prompt, and I kept going off on tangents: porny tangents and angsty tangents and political tangents. I wrote 3 of them, and none of them ended up fitting your prompt, so I wrote a 4th. But I _did_ want to thank you for helping me get started on them, and to tell you that the next 3 Arrow fics I post are inspired by you. :) Thanks.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Oliver says, and carefully replaces his bow in its case. “I’ll make it up to both of you.”

“Oh my god, _stop apologizing_.”

Felicity’s heels clang as she comes down the stairs, lacy tights torn over her knees, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a fifth of whiskey in the other.

“This is the one you wanted, right Digg?” She raises the whiskey in the air, and wobbles just a little on the last step.

Diggle gives her a thumbs-up. He’s reclining in Felicity’s chair, feet up on the table, a pink bruise just beginning to darken under his left eye.

Oliver tries again. “Seriously. I promised the both of you a day off—a low-key Christmas dinner—.”

“Seriously,” Digg says. “Drop it. It’s not your fault. Come drink with us.”

Oliver had only wanted to give them a night out on the town: an exclusive restaurant with bright, lush Christmas decorations and cinnamon-spiced cocktails. They could drink and eat, and for once in a very long time, relax in each others’ presence. And then the maitre d’ had pulled out a semiautomatic and declared that he was going to bring about the rapture. Today. On Oliver’s goddamn designated day off. What were the odds, really?

Diggle snorts. “In Starling City? I’d say fifty-fifty on any given day.”

Oliver hadn’t realized he’d spoken the last bit out-loud.

“No more moping!” Felicity declares, at the same time as Diggle thrusts a shotglass of whiskey into Oliver’s gloved hand. “We’ll just have a Christmas party right here. We can have music and everything.”

She reaches over Diggle to tap at the keyboard, and soon, Perry Como’s crooning softly out of the corners of the room.

Oliver examines his shotglass. “I didn’t know we had speakers down here.”

“Upgrade,” Felicity says proudly and collects her champagne glass from the table. “Now, where were we?”

Diggle lifts his eyebrows. “You mean before the shooting and the running?”

“Yes, before that.”

Oliver finds himself unexpectedly the focus of their attention.

“You were making a toast,” Digg reminds him.

“Oh right. I—” Oliver tilts his head, and tries to remember what he was going to say. Before the shooting and the running. He’d had a whole little speech worked out, about how loyal and tireless they both were, and how much he cared for them, and how much he hoped that the new year would be better for them. But now he’s tired, and disappointed, and suffering from bruised ribs. He can’t remember what he was going to say.

He smiles apologetically at them and raises his glass. “To Team Arrow.”

“Team Arrow,” Felicity and Diggle chorus back at him.

The whiskey goes down smooth.

* 

Rather later in the evening, Oliver reflects that he should probably change out of his leathers. At some point.

“Oliver. Do you know what you should do? You should wear a Santa hat. And then you would be all red and green.”

“I would,” he agrees, and lurches to his feet. He’s got sweats in the drawer somewhere, and wow, he has not been this drunk in years. He can feel the grimace etched onto his face, but he can’t help it. The alcohol is lubricating his guilt, and he keeps hearing the sound of Felicity’s knees hitting the concrete, the grunt of pain Diggle made when he got kicked in the face.

“I have to pee,” Felicity announces and vacates her chair to stumble towards the stairs.

Her skirt is riding up on her waist. Oliver catches himself looking and averts his gaze back to his glass.

“You could at least make an effort to look happy,” Diggle says from his spot on the floor, not slurring at all. He’s a gallingly even-keeled drunk. “You know I don’t give a shit, but the Jewish girl over there is trying her best to give you the Christmas party you wanted.”

“This always happens,” Oliver gets out, and then stops himself, because he can hear the whine in his own voice.

“Yes, it does. Which is why it’s important to enjoy the slow moments when they come.”

Oliver glares in Diggle’s direction, because he’s really not in the mood for good common sense.

“I had a better idea in the bathroom,” comes Felicity’s voice from the stairs. “We could put a gold star on your head, and then you would look like a very expensive and lickable Christmas tree!”

Diggle bursts into huffing laughter that sounds suspiciously like giggles, and Oliver frowns as her legs appear through the railing. She’s taken off her ruined tights, and her skinned knees are a raw, tender pink. She probably ran some water over them.

She’s saying: “I meant— I meant— you know. You know what I meant.”

“We know what you meant,” Digg says and lifts his glass in her direction. Felicity wanders over to stand in front of where Oliver’s slumped against the table.

“You look sad,” Felicity says, and pokes his cheek disapprovingly. “Come on, no sadness, Christmas is your favorite—”

And then she gets an determined expression—the one that makes Oliver think she’s probably telling the truth when she claims she could hack the Social Security Administration and change his official identity to a 14-year-old girl—and Oliver has just enough time to get alarmed before she goes up on her toes and applies her lips to his frown.

Her fingertips scratch pleasurably at his pulse points, her mouth slides slow and hot against his closed lips, and Oliver is not going to wrap his arms around her like he wants to, Diggle is _watching_. But oh—and his lips part, just for a second, and her tongue swipes briefly against his bottom lip before she drops back onto her heels with a _thud_.

She smiles up at him. “There you go. Kissing under mistletoe. That’s Christmas-y, right?”

Oliver can taste the wine she’s been drinking. He blinks, and then looks up. There’s nothing even remotely mistletoe-like hanging above them, just empty rafters.

“I—.” His thinking feels muddy and slow. The alcohol must be truly catching up with him.

“You have to _imagine_ the mistletoe.” Felicity’s already blushing a splotchy pink up and down her neck. “Like in movies, where the magic of Christmas makes dreams come true. Or whatever.”

He can hear Diggle laughing softly behind her, but Oliver refuses to meet his eyes. Felicity’s staring at him expectantly. He should say something. Something rational, and forward-thinking, along the lines of what he said to her after Russia. 

“Felicity—”

“It was a gift,” Felicity says. “You don’t have to be weird about it. I mean. I’ll probably be embarrassed tomorrow, but that’s just how I roll, you know. It’s just…it’s a gift. Enjoy yourself for thirty seconds.”

She’s flushed and beautiful and smiling, looking like she knows he’s about to brush her off and is too drunk and happy to care, and something twists in Oliver’s gut.

He leans in and kisses her, softly, and lets their lips part when he tips his forehead against hers. 

“That is good advice,” Oliver says, and leans back to watch her eyes flutter open again. She grins outright at him, and Oliver shoots a look at Diggle in acknowledgment. Digg manages to look both smug and likes he wants to cover his eyes.

They’re all alive. They’re all whole. That’s something. Oliver gives himself a little gift and pulls Felicity into his arms.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into her hair.

“And the Grinch’s small heart grew these sizes that day,” Felicity sing-songs into his chest.

“You’re Jewish,” he reminds her.

“…and yet I still know more pop culture than you, see how that works?”

Oliver rests his cheek rest atop of Felicity’s head. Diggle salutes him with the last of the whiskey, amused but fond.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Merry Christmas.”


End file.
